Battle Ensign

by Thomas E. Lightburn

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  ‘Enemy aircraft, red, roughly ten thousand feet,’ Taff Williams reported from the crow’s nest. The time was 0600. The sun was well up into the pale morning sky and the blueness of the sky almost obliterated by foggy heat haze. “Call the hands”, had just been piped and those ratings off duty were climbing out of their hammocks.

  Tansey Lee, who was fully clothed except for his boots, climbed out of his hammock and grabbed his anti-flash gear. While shaking his head, he gave Bud Abbott a disgruntled look, and said, ‘Always at fuckin’ breakfast time. You’d think the Ities would have more consideration.’

  ‘Next time I see old Musso, I’ll mention it to him,’ Abbott replied sarcastically, grabbing his steel helmet and life jacket. ‘Now, let’s get to B gun before the bastards nail us.’

  On Helix’s bridge, everyone watched apprehensively as a dozen twin engine fighter bombers from Mussolini’s Regia Aeronautica, moving in a tight, V formation, approached the convoy.

  ‘They’re twin engine, Savoia-Marchettis, sir,’ cried Baker, using his high-powered binoculars to identify the three black lines on white roundels on the underside of their mustard-coloured wings. ‘And they each carry six five-hundred-kilogramme bombs, sir,’ Baker added, almost as an afterthought.

  ‘Thank you, Pilot,’ Penrose replied, impressed yet again, by Baker’s knowledge and quick thinking. His voice was almost lost in the sudden roar of gunfire from the high angle guns of Carlisle and Penelope. Almost immediately the sky was peppered with puffs of black smoke as shells exploded around the bombers.

  ‘They’re coming down, sir,’ yelled the port lookout, watching, as one by one, the bombers broke formation and angled down towards the convoy.

  ‘Enemy in range, sir,’ Lieutenant Ted Powers reported from the gunnery direction platform.

  Everyone on the bridge strained upwards and saw the dive bombers swooping down from the sky. ‘There’s one of ‘em heading right for us,’ yelled Able Seaman Wacker Payne, the starboard lookout.

  ‘Starboard five!’ yelled Penrose.

  But it was no use. On and on it came, yellow sparks flickering from the 20mm cannons on each wing. With agility betraying his age, Penrose left his chair and joined the others taking cover on the deck, hearing the deadly tinkle as shells tore into the ship’s superstructure.

  ‘All guns open fire!’ snapped Penrose, climbing back into his chair. The ship suddenly heeled over to the right, sending a huge frothy wave crashing over the fo’c’sle. At the same time, the deck shuddered violently as the 4.7 guns of A, B and X guns belched smoke. Leading Seaman Darby Allan, manning the starboard pom-pom, pressed his eye against the spidery gunsight, and angling the gun’s quadruple barrels upwards, pressed the trigger. Straight away, pulsating streams of deadly cannonade poured towards one of the bombers, who immediately turned away unscathed.

  The guns of the cruisers, together with the escorts, produced and ear-splitting cacophony. In seconds, the blueness of the sky was almost obliterated by a plethora of black shell bursts. For a few seconds, the acrid cordite in the air stung eyes before being carried away on the wind.

  ‘Port five,’ shouted Penrose. Peering through their binoculars, everyone on the bridge watched as a Savoia, bravely ignoring the barrage, hurtled downwards before unleashing a stick of bombs onto the transport, Clan Campbell, lying roughly a hundred yards astern of Breconshire. The bomber then banked sharply before darting safely into the sky. Seconds later, a huge pall of yellow and red flames shot into the air as the missiles hit Clan Campbell amidships. Two more tremendous explosions rippled along her deck. In a matter of minutes, the stricken vessel was enveloped in a massive cloud of dense black smoke and flames. Two more eruptions sent daggers of scarlet and yellow flames shooting into the air. Suddenly, the sea was a mass of flotsam and men swimming away from the doomed vessel.

  The ear-splitting dissonance from the attack was so loud, people could hardly hear themselves think. Penrose trained his binoculars astern of Clan Campbell and recognised Captain Hutchinson, the convoy commodore, standing on the bridge. He had removed his cap, displaying a shock of white hair. Next to him stood two officers. They watched calmly as the last of the crew dived overboard. The officers appeared to shake the commodore’s hand then left the bridge.

  ‘For God’s sake, man,’ Penrose cried, ‘get away while you…’

  ‘She’s starting to go down, sir,’ cried Baker, watching the stern on the stricken vessel tilt ominously low in the water. ‘Eridge and Dulverton have their scrambling nets out and are moving in to pick up survivors, sir.’

  With a sigh of relief, Penrose saw the commodore leave the bridge, knowing that, as captain, he would be the last to leave his ship before it went under.

  ‘Port ten. X gun cease fire. A and B continue firing. Revolutions five.’

  ‘Ten a port wheel on. Revolutions five,’ came the distinct Yorkshire voice of Chief Barnes below in the wheelhouse.

  ‘Steady as you go,’ Penrose said as the ship turned and slowly cut through the sea towards the men struggling in the water.

  From the port wing, Manley watched as Chief Bosun’s Mate, Charlie Jackson and several seamen removed the guard rails on the quarterdeck and lowered a large scrambling net over the side.

  ‘Stop engines,’ Penrose shouted, his voice barely audible over the continued booming of gunfire. He then unhooked the tannoy. ‘This is the captain speaking. Clan Campbell has been badly damaged and is sinking. All hands muster on the quarterdeck to help survivors. Chief Cook to prepare hot drinks and sandwiches. Medical Officer and first aid party stand by.’ Turning to Manley, he added, ‘Please go and ask the survivors if any of them saw the commodore being picked up.’

  Manley nodded and left the bridge. A few minutes later he returned, and slightly out of breath, said, ‘No, sir, none of them remembers seeing the commodore’

  ‘Pity,’ Penrose replied, furrowing his brow. Just then everyone ducked as a Savoia-Marchetti soared over the ship, unloading a bomb which exploded twenty yards away from Helix’s port beam, sending a deluge of water over the bridge. ‘Start engines, port ten, revolutions twenty, X gun open fire,’ shouted Penrose, glancing warily up, as despite the continued barrage from the cruisers and escorts, the bombers pressed home their attack.

  ‘One of the bastards has been hit!’ shouted Able Seaman Dixie Dean, the port lookout.

  All eyes watched anxiously as a stream of black smoke poured from one of the bomber’s twin engines. Seconds later, the aircraft burst into flames then splashed into the sea.

  ‘That’s one less for a spaghetti supper, eh, sir?’ quipped Bud Abbott.

  ‘Quite so,’ Manley quickly answered, ‘but we’d better duck ‘cos here comes another one.’

  In the sick bay, Bamford and Latta placed Hamish, who was asleep, onto the leather examination couch. Daly and the other first aiders had left to go to their respective action stations. Bamford and the doctor had begun unstrapping Hamish from the Neil Robertson, when the pipe telling them to stand by to receive survivors, came over the tannoy.

  ‘You’d better go and see what’s going on,’ said the doctor, undoing the last strap of the stretcher.

  Bamford nodded and grabbed a medical bag and arrived on the quarterdeck in time to see PO Steward Sandy Powel and members of the first aid party helping soaking wet men onto the quarterdeck and covering them with blankets. Some of the survivors wore only a shirt; others wore overalls that clung to their bodies like a wrinkled skin; all of them were pale-faced and shivering.

  ‘Look lively and get them below into the seamen’s mess deck,’ Chief Bosun’s Mate, Jackson, shouted to a group of ratings.

  ‘And tell the stores assistant to issue them with number eights and overalls,’ said Lieutenant Milton.

  ‘Any of them injured, sir?’ Bamford asked.

  ‘As you can see,’ Milton replied, nodding towards PO Powel who was in the process of putting a shell dressing around a man’s bloody head,
‘one of ‘em is hurt. The rest seem all right.’

  One by one, the survivors were helped down into the seamen’s mess and each given a mug of steaming hot kye. The injured man was a small, sturdily built Scot with dark, matted hair.

  ‘You’re lucky,’ said Bamford after removing the shell dressing, ‘it’s only a bad graze. No need for stiches, but were you knocked out?’

  ‘Och, no, laddie,’ the man answered after taking a welcome sip of kye. ‘It takes more than a fuckin’ Itie bomb to do that.’

  ‘Good for you, Jock,’ Bamford replied, while cleaning the injured area and applying a fresh dressing. Bamford checked to ensure none of the other survivors were injured then left.

  In the sick bay, Doctor Latta had just checked the splints on Hamish’s leg when Bamford entered. ‘Anything serious below?’ he asked very quietly while removing his stethoscope earpieces.

  ‘No, sir,’ Bamford replied. ‘How is Hamish?’ he whispered, looking at Hamish’s face poking over the bedclothes and the bulge of the protective cradle Bamford had earlier placed under the bed coverlet.

  ‘He was in pain, so I’ve given him another shot of morphia,’ the doctor replied.

  ‘Any signs of…’ Bamford muttered, ominously sniffing the air for the tell-tale smell of gangrene.

  ‘No, thank goodness, but we’ll have to keep a careful watch on him,’ the doctor answered warily.

  The time was shortly after 1000. Most of survivors appeared to have been rescued, when, suddenly, Clan Campbell exploded. An ugly mushroom of dense, black smoke billowed into the air like a volcanic explosion. Everyone on Helix’s bridge flinched as a warm shock wave fanned their faces. In a matter of minutes, the ship had vanished beneath the sea, leaving behind a swirling mass of detritus and the grisly remains of her crew.

  For the next hour, there was a welcome lull in the action as, one by one, the bombers regrouped some five thousand metres above the convoy. The guns on the escorts and cruisers ceased firing.

  Penrose looked guardedly at Manley, and using a handkerchief to wipe his sweat stained face, said, ‘Better remain at action stations, Number One, I don’t think they’re finished with us yet.’

  ‘I agree, sir, look at them,’ Manley replied, shielding his eyes with hand while gazing upwards. ‘The bastards are circling around like vultures ready to swoop on their prey and…’ Sub Lieutenant Baker who was standing nearby interrupted him.

  ‘Not for long, sir,’ Baker cried, ‘they’re peeling off and diving down.’

  ‘All guns open fire!’ Penrose shouted.

  Once again, pandemonium broke out as the blueness of the sky became a pastiche of black explosions. ‘Starboard five,’ cried Penrose, watching one of the bombers approaching the ship a mere hundred yards above the sea. His order came just in time to avoid two bombs. The vibrant underwater percussions caused by them exploding fifty yards away violently rocked the ship. Once more all officers and ratings on the bridge were subjected to a watery deluge. Men closed up at the guns, clung onto anyone and anything to avoid falling over. Curses rang out as stokers in the engine and boiler rooms slipped over on the metal grating sustaining bruised heads and twisted ankles, while in the sick bay, Bamford almost fell off his chair while preventing Hamish from being flung out of his cot.

  On the bridge, Penrose and the others became aware that the enemy bombers had switched tactics and were concentrating on the three merchant ships. During what seemed an eternity, but was only a mere ten minutes, the bombers circled above the convoy. Then, one by one, broke formation and dived onto the ships, dropping their deadly cargos, before darting up through a maelstrom of gunfire and unleashing their bombs. This was quickly followed by palls of water shooting into the air as bombs burst harmlessly around Pampas and Talbot. The bombers banked away, then, after turning slowly, dived towards Breconshire and unloaded a stick of bombs onto the tanker.

  The explosive impact of the bombs caused massive walls of white water to completely obliterate the vessel. For what seemed like an age, a thick curtain of water hung in the air like a shimmering white shroud, before slowly collapsing into the sea.

  ‘Bloody hell, sir, it’s a bloody miracle,’ shouted Manley, who, like everyone else, watched in awe as the tanker, apparently unscathed, gradually appear out of the watery mist. ‘She’s still afloat!’

  ‘Yes, but she’s not moving,’ said Penrose, ‘she’s obviously badly damaged.’

  ‘The bombers have left, sir,’ Baker shouted looking up into the sky, now empty, except for the black shell bursts slowly fading away.

  ‘I expect they’ve run out of bombs,’ Manley muttered, ‘and we’re probably down on ammunition, so I hope the buggers stay away.’

  ‘Cease firing, Number One,’ said Penrose, ‘and send a signal to Breconshire, and ask, “How badly are you damaged? Can we help?’”

  Anticipating his captain’s order, PO Signalman Spud Tate, using his Aldis lamp, flashed the message to the tanker.

  For several minutes, everyone waited anxiously for a reply. Just after 1200, a series of white flashes appeared from the port side of Breconshire’s bridge. The reply read, All engines out of action. Cannot make steam. Will require a tow. Tonnage of m y ship too much for a destroyer. Have asked Carlisle for help.’

  ‘Signal being flashed from Carlisle, sir,’ said Tate, training his binoculars ahead of the convoy. ‘“Carlisle, Eridge, Dulverton to escort Pampas and Talbot to Malta. Penelope to take Breconshire in tow. Helix to proceed to Malta ahead and land injured man. Good Luck, Neame”.’

  ‘Reply, “Wilco, God’s speed, Penrose”.’ Giving Baker an enquiring glance, he went on, ‘What’s our ETA Malta?’

  ‘Let’s see, sir,’ muttered Baker as he consulted his chart, ‘the air attack has slowed us down so I’m afraid it’ll take us four days to arrive in Malta.’

  ‘Thank you, Pilot. Increase speed five knots. Number One, phone the doc then tell the chief bosun’s mate to pack Hamish’s kit ready for when we transfer him to Bighi.’

  Manley gave a quick nod of acknowledgement, then telephoned the sick bay. ‘How is Hamish bearing up, Doc?’ he asked Latta.

  ‘At the moment he’s asleep,’ the doctor quietly replied, ‘but he’s still running a temperature. Could you send a signal to the C-in-C informing him of the injury and requesting an ambulance to meet us on arrival?’

  ‘Of course, Doc,’ Manley replied, and replaced the handset. However, what the doctor didn’t say was the area around Hamish’s fracture was slightly discoloured and despite the ant-gas gangrene injection, he feared the worst.

  Shortly after 0600 on Sunday 12th June, radar reported the coastline of Malta fifty miles on port bow. Everyone on Helix’s bridge watched as Penelope took up a position fifty yards in front of Breconshire and took the merchantman in tow.

  ‘The barometer beginning to drop, sir,’ Baker reported to Penrose, ‘and the wind is increasing.’

  ‘Looks like a storm is brewing,’ said Penrose, watching as Penelope began to move. In doing so, the tow ropes that had hung into the sea suddenly became taught, shedding clouds of water. ‘Well, they’d better get a move on,’ Penrose remarked, glancing cautiously up at the ugly black clouds approaching from the east.’

  ‘With a bit of luck, we’ll be safely in Valletta before the storm breaks,’ said Manley.

  However, by 1300, the wind had become bitterly cold, bringing tears to the eyes of everyone on Helix’s open bridge. Ten minutes later, the heavens opened. Thick lines of rain slanted down, turning the relatively calm sea into a vast carpet of tiny fountains. Shortly after 1500, the pipe, “Special sea duty men fall in. Wet weather routine”, echoed around the ship.

  On the bridge, Sub Lieutenant Baker glanced at Penrose, who was sat in his customary chair, and said, ‘Radar, report minefield a hundred yards dead ahead, sir, it’s marked two hundred wide on my chart.’

  ‘Thank you, Pilot,’ Penrose sighed. ‘That’s all we bloody need, rough weather, a crippled tanker in tow
and the danger of another air attack. Reduce speed to ten knots, port five.’

  With the use of radar and expert seamanship, Penrose managed to navigate Helix through the minefield, and after passing through the breakwater, everyone gave a sigh of relief as Helix entered Grand Harbour. From the port side of the rain swept bridge, the sturdy walls of St Angelo could be seen angling downwards into the sea.

  Using the local, durable, yellow sandstone, this mighty, four-storey bastion was built by the Order of Saint John in the sixteenth century. Since then, it had stood like a mighty sentinel, guarding the entrance to the harbour. By the outbreak of war, the fort has housed five batteries, manned by Royal Marines and the Royal Artillery. In 1942 it was now the headquarters of Admiral Sir Browne Cunningham, C-in-C Mediterranean.

  “Attention on the upper deck. Face the port”, came the pipe.

  ‘Just think,’ Dutch Holland said to Knocker White, who along with those ratings off duty, were fallen in on the port side of the fo’c’sle, ‘tonight we’ll be havin’ vicious run ashore down the Gut.’

  ‘Canteen leave, more’s the likely, what with these fuckin’ air raids’, Knocker replied, feeling a cold finger of rain trickle down his neck.

  ‘St Angelo flashing, sir,’ said PO Tate. ‘Signal says, “Berth port side, French Creek. Ambulance and doctor to meet. Cunningham’”.’ (French Creek is so called after Napoleon landed here in 1768 in an effort to capture the island.)

  ‘Good Lord,’ exploded Penrose, ‘I though ABC was still in Alexandria. Reply, “Wilco. Many thanks, sir. Penrose, Helix”.’ (Admiral Brown Cunningham was affectionately known as ABC.)

  Giving Manley an appreciative look, Penrose, said, ‘French Creek is the first one on the left past the fort. With luck we’ll be alongside in about twenty minutes. Better inform the doc.’